Fitting
by Pickled Lemons
Summary: It was very fitting, really, that he should see her now, in the midst of these paintings. Paintings that showed corruption of the innocent, and concealment of the pure. He didn’t know why. But it did. OneShot.


As he walked past the rows and rows of paintings, hung up at the Vincent Emporium Art Gallery, Draco found himself very bored. He normally loved Art galleries. The forms, the colors, the hidden meanings, the representations and implications: they all fascinated him. He could spend hours and hours poring over them.

But this was not his type of art. The Vincent Emporium was one of the largest and most famous art galleries in London. It was also extremely commercialized. The paintings were all made by witches and wizards with big names, fancy titles, and absolutely no creativity. They were large- often six feet in length and breadth- and had ostensible frames with gilded work and annoying curlicues. The colors were exasperatingly bright- yellows and reds and lime greens. There was also one entire section depicting only unattractive Dresden shepherdesses.

Obviously, nothing found here would highlight the impeccable culture and taste of his manor.

As he wandered past another row, a thin woman with fading red hair and a dark green dress drifted towards him. She had what looked like a dead fox, complete with ears and fangs, hanging around her neck. He supposed she thought she looked very chic.

'Good evening, Mr. Malfoy,' she said, silkily. This one knew his name and reputation. Like all the others. 'It's such an honor to have you here.'

He merely grunted. Nothing about the gallery was pleasing to him, and he sorely regretted wasting his evening here. He knew he should have gone to the smaller, discreet gallery in one of the back-alleys he frequently visited. Much less pomp and grandeur, but it had paintings that had talent and skill and a wonderful use of subtle colors. Brand, he knew, had no holding when it came to art. The big painters lost their originality, and their works began to look jaded and similar to others. It was the new ones, the ones who hadn't made it and were still trying, who managed to capture his attention. He was no novice to art. Enough experience, amongst hundreds of galleries to know that. Enough experience to have all the owners drooling over the thought of having their paintings being bought by him.

'We have a lovely collection of St Rogers,' the lady continued. He had forgotten her name. 'They're right over here.'

He sighed unhappily. Might as well go see them.

She led him down another brightly lit corridor. The paintings screamed for attention. The carpet was plush, the frames gleaming.

It was all so horribly lewd.

'Hm,' he murmured, looking at another picture. 'Hm.'

His eyes strayed, and suddenly caught sight of another corridor. This one was smaller slimmer, more difficult to enter. It had hardly any lights. It was dull and dismal.

Looked promising.

'What about in there?' he asked, pointing.

The woman looked hesitant. 'Well,' she said, 'I don't think it will suit your- your grand sense of art.'

'I want to look at it.'

'Really, we have a Montague which-.'

'I said I want to look at it.'

Sighing unhappily, she led him in.

'I'll leave you to it, then,' she said, and left. Evidently, she didn't want to be around when he saw what she felt was the shame of the gallery.

There was someone else at the far end of the row, but he paid no attention. He was preoccupied by the paintings. Wonderful, some of these. Hardly a foot tall. Done in pastels. The painter had used subtle shades of oyster gray, and muted dusky navies. There were hints on beige.

'Non-representational,' he murmured. 'Abstract.' He lingered over a small picture of irises done in beige, with a violent looking creeper slashing past them. There was a bowl of daisies that were being cut by scissors.

Interesting…

As he moved down the row, the paintings became darker.

Here was one which showed a hand, with cuts all down the wrist. The hand was holding a crucifix.

Next was a black woman, the color of her skin hinted at by the dark navies used to paint, who was holding a scimitar over a child. A white child. A white child with fangs.

Now Draco was riveted. He continued down the row. As he did so, the girl at the end turned a little and he recognized her.

It was Hermione Granger.

Draco stopped in surprise. He hadn't seen her in years. It was very fitting, really, that he should see her now, in the midst of these paintings. Paintings that showed corruption of the innocent, and concealment of the pure. He didn't know why. But it did.

She was dressed in a loose dress, the same dusky blue as the paintings. Her hair was the mess it always was, and she was barefoot. No make up. Dark circles. She was staring at the last painting.'

'May I?' Draco said, out loud.

She looked at him, and her eyes widened in surprise. Then her face relaxed and she stepped back. She gestured towards the painting.

'It's the last one.' She said.

Draco nodded. Throat dry, he walked up to the painting and regarded it thoughtfully.

A girl- young, white, innocent, done in the palest cream shade. Hair hung about her face- hair that was mere black slashes. She was leaning forward over what looked like a river- a river that was violently colored in crimson and black. A man stood behind her, with a face that was a simple swathe of white, and a beard and hair that looked suspiciously familiar. He wore long beige robes. He had an arm around her waist- preventing her from falling into the river.

He held a crucifix in the other hand.

'This row,' Draco said, slowly, 'has more merit than the entire art gallery put together.'

Hermione nodded. 'It's too loud out there.' She said. 'Quieter in here. More peaceful. But very- very sad.'

'Inner torment,' Draco nodded. He paused. 'How did they allow these paintings to be hung up?'

Hermione shrugged. 'The painter knew some influential people. They insisted. The gallery owes them, but doesn't like it.'

He looked at her in surprise. 'How do you know this?'

'I painted them.' She said.

This time he wasn't surprised.

'Fitting,' he murmured.

'Yes,' she nodded. 'I know what you mean. It's fitting we should meet here.'

'This last one?' he asked, pointing at it.

'I did it a year back.'

'I don't need to ask what the river is. Who's the man? Jesus?'

She shook her head. 'Satan.'

Now he was shocked. 'Satan? But it looked- it looks like-.'

'Do they really look very different?' Hermione asked. She sounded bored.

He fell silent at that one.

'It's what's inside that counts.' She added. 'It isn't the face. The face never counts.'

'That's why you left it blank?'

'It isn't blank. It's a mask. A thick mask.'

He looked softly at her, with new eyes.

'You've been through hell, Granger.'

She nodded. 'I haven't come out.'

'You will. Some day.'

'When the paintings burn, maybe.' She gestured vaguely towards them. 'They're always there. They keep reminding me.'

'Then why did you paint them?'

'To get it all out.'

'And now you can't destroy them?'

'They're my life.' She said, solemnly.

He looked curiously at her. 'You can't go while they're there. And you make them go or you will too. Is that so, Granger?'

'I think you understand.'

'I do.' He said.

He abruptly turned and called for the woman.

She came in a moment, dress rustling, chest heaving. She looked anxious.

'Yes, Mr. Malfoy.'

'I want this one.' He pointed to the last one.

Her face flickered. Her voice broke.

'O-Of course.' She said. 'If you're sure.'

'Absolutely. Wrap it up and make my bill, please.' She nodded, and began to unhook it.

'I suppose you like it,' she murmured, 'It was a terrible tragedy, though. You know Mr. Weasley?'

'Yes, I know him.' Draco said, coldly. The woman hadn't even acknowledged Granger. He supposed she didn't think the barefooted girl belonged in the ridiculous gallery.

'He insisted we keep the paintings. Said a friend of his had made them. And such a big name- we couldn't refuse, you know.'

'Of course not.' How he hated the woman. And Granger was right here, too.

'He had sentimental value for them,' she continued, looking disapprovingly at the paintings. 'I believe the girl who painted them died. That's why he wanted them hung. He wanted them to be remembered.'

She sighed, and took off the painting.

'I'll go pack them, Mr. Malfoy.'

Draco stared at her. Then, he turned to Hermione. She was looking at him with a little smile on her face.

The woman left. So did Draco. He turned abruptly on heel and strode away, as fast as he could.

Behind him, Hermione's voice echoed.

'I knew you'd go the minute you found out.'

oOo

'_I knew you'd go the minute you found out._'

Why would the damn words not leave his mind?

Draco stared at the painting. Despite everything, he had hung it up on his wall. He couldn't leave it. It was too beautiful.

But the words weren't easy to get rid of. He couldn't forget them.

_I painted them_

_It's fitting we should meet here_

_Do they really look very different? It's what's inside that counts. It isn't the face. The face never counts._

_When the paintings burn, maybe. They're always there. They keep reminding me._

_They're my life_

He groaned, and threw an arm over his head. He needed to forget. He needed to speak. He hadn't closed his eyes all night, and now the dawn was breaking. A pinkish tinge had appeared over the sky.

Owls were flying past.

One tapped his window. It was the Daily Prophet. He gave it a Knut, and unrolled the paper, not really caring.

Long seconds of silence passed. The room grew still and cold. Finally, Draco stood up and crossed over to where he had hung his jacket. Inside the pocket was a silver lighter, embellished with a snake. His father had given it to him for a previous birthday.

He took the painting off the wall and watched it burn. The canvas was eaten up slowly. The river disappeared in a curl of brown. Satan sustained, but was finally eaten up by flames. The brown edges raged inwards.

Finally, the girl was gone too.

He waited until the entire canvas had gone. Then, he took the empty framework and hung it back on the wall. That would always remain there. Always.

He went back to the Daily Prophet and picked it up.

**VINCENT EMPORIUM ART GALLERY SET ON FIRE. ALL PAINTINGS IN ROW 33 HAVE BEEN DESTROYED.**

He glanced back up at the empty frame on the wall. It was blank, but he could see something in it. Something that moved and breathed and was real. It was the emotion that Hermione had painted into the canvas that lived even after the picture went. This was real art.

'Fitting.' He murmured to himself, and then went to take a shower.


End file.
